


Witch Hunt

by saliache



Category: The Last Herald Mage, Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: A Wild Plot Appears, Bards being excited about meeting other Bards unexpectedly, M/M, Mysteries Abound, everyone's off to a wonderful start, mutually incompatible loyalties, reputations everywhere, surprise Gaelle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-02 11:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10943829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saliache/pseuds/saliache
Summary: Stefen: highly proficient Bard, spy hunter, and agent of the ThroneValdir: failed Bard, fugitive, and persona for one spy and Herald-Mage Vanyel AshkevronTogether, they fight crime.





	1. Bard Meets Bard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [typhe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/typhe/gifts).



_:Three days, two nights, and seventeen candlemarks. You're losing your touch, love.:_

_:Quiet, horse.:_ The rain was growing steadily heavier, and most of the people still outside were swathed in cloak and hood, effectively anonymous to his querying gaze.

Valdir hunched deeper into his own cloak, trying to ignore the frigid trickle of water leaking from a frayed spot in the oilcloth. Nights like these were almost always bad; not enough custom to buy his way into safe shelter, gangs and Guardsmen on alert for strange vagrants, and inevitably a cold and uncomfortable bed, if he could manage to find one. It was uncomfortable enough thinking about how life could be different for people just miles from the Valdemaran border.

Lights beckoned at him; a tavern of some sort, raucous with cheering – and music. Very good music. Valdir let himself slow for a moment and _listen_. A minstrel, Hardorn-trained, on a hurdy-gurdee. Her voice was Giftless but steady and strong. The bouncer gave Valdir a dirty look and moved one hand to the club at her waist; he got the point and moved on.

One of the inns had a stable large enough to have its own hayloft and multiple doors. Valdir hoped it was an inn, at least. There was an empty stall near the tack room and he slid into it gratefully, intending to be gone by the time the hostlers came in.

* * *

The stable's doors slammed open. Valdir woke with a start, cursing mentally. A young man in a sodden, heavily embroidered red cape froze, staring at the stranger occupying the stall meant for his horse.

"I- I'll just be going," Valdir stammered, seizing his lute. "Thought it would be a good time to check up on my horse and fell asleep before I could make it back to my rooms. Bye."

He bolted.

Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, the young man reached out, startlingly fast, and caught his arm. Valdir flinched.

"I see you're a minstrel, at the very least," the stranger said, smiling. Too late, Valdir noticed a lute case, in much better condition than his own, slung beneath the fancy cloak. "I'm... Staven. I rarely meet another songster on the road. Will you not come in and share some songs with me?"

 _Staven._ Vanyel fought down the memories that the name dredged up.

He smiled shyly at Staven. "I would be honored to," he murmured, contriving to sound awed and grateful. "Thank you."

Staven returned his smile. It was a lovely smile, Valdir noted. "And I would be honored to share hearth and ome with you,"

Valdir nodded hesitantly at the formal welcome. Staven paused, as if waiting for further introduction. When none was forthcoming he extended a courteous, entirely theatrical half-bow, clapped Valdir on the back, and all but pushed him toward the still-open doors. It was, Valdir thought despairingly, entirely muddy outside.

"Come on!" Staven called, sprinting through the mud. Valdir followed him, uncertain on the wet cobblestones, into an enormous room filled with light and sound and people.

The innkeeper materialized at Staven's elbow. Valdir barely merited a second glance, but Staven was quickly whisked away to a private room.

So Staven wasn't expected to perform? Valdir frowned, trying to make sense of this strange reversal of custom, when the innkeeper reappeared and hustled him into Staven's room.

The man in question lounged on the stuffed couches lining the small room. The meal on the small table in front of him was enough to make Valdir's mouth water.

"Sit," Staven urged. His eyes were hazel, direct, and _very_ intent. Valdir looked away, flushing.

"I don't mean to impose," he murmured, but Staven only waved a hand lazily.

"Believe it or not, I would be more than glad if you chose to partake," he drawled.

Valdir complied, shoveling food into his mouth with the desperate efficiency of the long-deprived. And it _was_ good – bread fresh and hot from the oven, butter sweet and salted both, dried and pickled vegetables stewed with pork, rabbit pie, and miracle of miracles, a pocket pie thick and bursting with chopped fruit – _fruit!_ In winter! He revised his estimation of Staven's fortunes several times higher.

"There's a mage in Wintersnest who grows fruit year-round," Staven explained, interpreting Vanyel's surprised look. "The innkeeper gets what he doesn't sell, for cheap. As I was the one who introduced the two, he saves me _his_ spares."

Valdir chuckled appreciatively.

"Speaking of introductions," Staven continued dryly. "I don't believe I ever got your name...?"

"Valdir." Valdir downed a last mouthful of pie. "I'm Valdir. Nice to meet you."

"Hello, Valdir," Staven grinned. "Valdir. Sounds like a Valdemaran name."

Valdir nodded. "Valdemar born and bred, but I thought I might like to learn about Hardornen musical customs."

Staven's grin grew wider. "Most excellent!" he cried. "I have been looking into Valdemaran music myself!"

Valdir felt an answering grin bloom on his face. "I daresay we have a lot to learn from each other then!"

Staven reached over to clasp Valdir's forearm. "Done! In the meantime, let me put you in room and board – if anyone asks, just tell them to add it to Staven Frelennye's tab."

* * *

"Staven Frelennye?" Gaelle murmurs, one eyebrow raised. "Wasn't he some Valdemaran baron or something?"

"Yes," you reply irritably. You aren't quite sure why you picked that particular name in the first place; it's not – quite – obscure enough for your tastes.

Gaelle muses it over, spinning a knife over and over in her hands. The walls of this hidden room are pocked with knife-marks. The other three knives are embedded on a map pinned to the wall, in a tight circle over Sunhame. "Well, how did he react?"

"Definitely surprised," you reply. There had definitely been an element of shock in the Bard – Valdir's – face when you gave Staven's name. "He's familiar with old Valdemaran politics, at least."

"A Valdemaran Bard," Gaelle sighs. "Spies, the lot of them."

You think of the faint awe on Valdir's face when he saw your lute, the thin and faintly starved look about him. "He might not be a spy," you argue. "Maybe he's running from something. Maybe he needs our help."

Gaelle actually laughs. The sound is sharp and not even remotely friendly.

"I think he's fey," you continue stubbornly. "You know Northern prejudices. I wouldn't be surprised if he were fleeing persecution."

"Oh, Stef," Gaelle sighs. "I was not expecting you to fall for a pretty face."

That would be ridiculous. You know who holds your purse strings – and your loyalty. A pretty face is nothing in the face of everything that makes you Somebody.

"Keep an eye on him, then," you tell her curtly. "If you're right, then I want to know."

Gaelle's face softens. "You've come too far to give it all up, Stef."

That much is obvious, at least.  


	2. Paradigm Shift

To his surprise, Vanyel found himself enjoying his conversations with the man who was almost certainly not named Staven Frelennye. He showed Staven a trick he'd picked up for rapidly repeating arpeggios on a lute; Staven taught him fashionable Hardornen tunes.

"You mean My Lady's Eyes is also popular in Valdemar?" Staven was aghast.

Valdir nodded, playing the first few chords to confirm his familiarity with the tune.

"A travesty," Staven sighed dramatically, leaning against the back of his overstuffed sofa in feigned despair.

They were sitting in another of the inn's private rooms, this one filled with plush, battered furniture and a small table burdened with an assortment of winter nuts. One side of the room adjourned the kitchen, which was a good thing when there was six feet of snow and counting outside.

Valdir picked his way through another few chords before stilling the strings. He had to ask. "Are you really the only Bard in this town?"

Staven sighed. He leaned forward, and suddenly he was predatory, a figure half-shadow and half-gilded firelight and entirely dangerous.

"Valdir," he said, "trust me when I say that it can be dangerous for Bards anywhere, but here all Bards are under the personal protection of the Throne. You needn't fear persecution here from anyone, commoner or Bard or Lord alike. This is Hardorn, not Karse or Rethwellan."

Valdir nodded hesitantly. _:'Fandes, dear?:_

 _:Still doesn't explain Breda's rumors. Although I suppose they could be nothing but that – baseless gossip.:_ Yfandes' mindvoice was thick with doubt.

Staven apparently misinterpreted his Mindspeech for disbelief; he leaned forward and took one of Valdir's hands in his, cradling it gently.

"I promise you, Valdir, you are completely safe here."

Valdir smiled hesitantly. "Thank you, Staven," he said softly. Staven looked thrilled and no little bit fascinated. Vanyel winced internally, shoving down guilt over this blatant manipulation.

"If I could ask, then," he continued, forging ahead recklessly. He had to ask. "Why do you call yourself Staven Frelennye?"

Staven looked taken aback. His hands tightened on Vanyel's. "What do you mean?"

"I..." Vanyel hesitated. Staven was a nice young man, bright and cheerful and innocent, the kind of man who would help a random stranger he found squatting in his horse's stall. The kind of man who fed a starving minstrel and taught him songs, no questions asked.

The kind of man to take up the identity of a dead, disgraced nobleman.

"I met the real Staven Frelennye once." A lie.

Staven's face was unreadable.

"He's dead. He died a long time ago." Truth. A flashback – _pine trees snapping, and screaming wind, a Gift gone wild and madness growing -_

_:That was stupid, Van!:_

Stupid, yes, incredibly stupid of him, sitting alone and unarmed in a room with a Bard whose Gift far outstripped his – "You said I had nothing to fear here, in Hardorn. So why would you lie to me about your name?"

Staven sighed, and something in him deflated. His mouth opened, then closed without a sound. He frowned, tried again, and his face suddenly went blank – the blankness of Mindspeech.

Vanyel drew in energy, wove it into a paralyzing net and primed it. "Staven, what aren't you telling me?"

Staven's face twitched, its usual liveliness returning, and he laughed ruefully. "Serves me right to lie."

Vanyel waited.

"I... I wanted to impress you, you know." Staven laughed humorlessly. "It figures I'd end up meeting the one person who knew I wasn't actually a Lord."

"A Bard and an actor?" Vanyel asked, faking shock. Sarcasm must have leaked through as well, based off Staven's reaction. "What has the world come to?"

Staven hesitated. "What I told you was true, you know," he said conversationally, his eyes boring into a point just over Vanyel's left shoulder. "All Bards in Hardorn are under the aegis of the Throne. The Throne takes care of us, no matter who we are or where we came from."

"And that's why you're here," Vanyel concluded. "I heard rumors about Bards disappearing, even in Valdemar. You're here to investigate that."

"Which brings us to you," Staven said. "Your story doesn't add up. Need I detail why?"

Vanyel winced. "No need. A name for a name?"

Staven extended his hand. "Stefen, Master Bard of King Festil's Court."

Vanyel clasped his wrist and shook, in the Hardornend style. "I'm not a Bard, not really. Master Bard Breda of the Valdemaran Bardic Circle sent me."

Stefen whistled, high and swooping. "Not a Bard? You sure?"

"I came into my Gift late," Vanyel said dryly. "I can sing some, and play, but never had the time to really develop my Gift."

"And you never even fulfilled your own conditions," Stefen murmured. "A name for a name."

"I gave you a name," Vanyel reminded him. "A title, even. Bard Breda. Of Valdemar."

Staven waited.

 _:Don't give in:_ Yfandes urged. _:He's not what he seems to be, either. If things were any tenser, I'd say that-:_

 _:-that you had a bad feeling about this whole mess, I know.:_ Vanyel kept his face pleasant. The little fire in the fireplace burned lower.

Stefen cracked first. "I gave you two names, as I recall. My own, and my patron's. You gave me but one – your patron's."

"A friend," Vanyel corrected automatically, then winced. Yfandes radiated disapproval in his mind.

"A friend," Stefen repeated mildly. "You call the most influential Bard in Valdemar a friend. You, a minstrel of no particular note."

"Call me Medren?" Vanyel asked.

"Not likely."

Another pause, while the room dimmed and the noises outside intensified – the dinner rush was starting, and the innkeeper would be by soon to requisition the room for his dinner patrons.

Vanyel knew with sudden clarity that if they left this room without some kind of resolution, they would never find it.

As before, Stefen beat him to the first word.

"Just tell me," he coaxed with a soft, nervous smile. "I mean, it's not like you're the second coming of Herald-Mage Vanyel, right?"

Vanyel snapped his mouth shut.

Stefen's smile wavered, then dropped. "You jest," he accused. "No way you're Herald-Mage Vanyel himself."

"So what if I am?"

"You're too short to be Herald-Mage Vanyel," Stefen continued. "And besides-"

A knock on the door.

"Come in," Stefen called as Vanyel said, "One moment, please."

The door swung open, revealing a young woman with a pale, ash-grey mane, a coolly disdainful look on her face, and something just shy of a sword in one hand.

"This," Stefen said into the ensuing silence, "is Gaelle, my companion. Gaelle, this is Herald-Mage Vanyel – yes, _that_ Herald-Mage Vanyel."

 

* * *

This is a farce, you think. In the doorway – Gaelle, dear friend, companion, the only person you have ever let into the morass of your mind. On a chair between you, too poised and confident to be otherwise – _theHerald-Mage Vanyel himself_ , power and authority and symbol of Valdemaran might, wrapped up in old burlap and canvas and a lovely, lovely face.

"You jest," Gaelle says, more to convince herself, you think, than to convince anyone else.

Herald-Mage Vanyel is silent, his body preternaturally still. You cannot read what he is thinking. It is disquieting.

Gaelle's mind pokes at yours. You let her in. _:I suppose if I wanted the full explanation I should have come sooner.:_

There wasn't much of an explanation. Just two liars poking holes into each other's stories, all predicated on a poor choice of name.

Herald-Mage Vanyel, clearly more accustomed to this type of situation than you are, rises gracefully. Every move he makes is graceful, you think despairingly. It's unfair.

"You may call me Valdir," he offers. "Herald-Mage Vanyel is quite the pretentious mouthful, don't you think?"

Gaelle stares. So do you, for that matter.

Herald-Mage Vanyel remains undaunted. "I believe we are both here for the same reasons – the disappearance of Bards. I bear you no ill-will, and I hope you bear me none likewise. Shall we work together?"

"You destroyed Baron Nedren," Gaelle says faintly. "And his entire complement of armsmen. _And_ his blood-mage."

"He was a Karsite spy," the Herald-Mage says, as if that makes everything alright.

This day is rapidly making less and less sense.

"So do we fight each other now or agree to work together instead?" Thank the gods for Gaelle.

To your surprise, Herald-Mage Vanyel agrees with the latter. And just like that, you find yourself working with the greatest boogeyman in five countries.

 


	3. The Investigation

The first Bard, Sofia, had vanished after playing a set at the Wailing Cat, a small tavern frequented by Guardsmen and therefore set a bit away from the other inns, and closer to the guardhouse than anything else.

As Stefen pointed out, no one had heard or seen anything. Against his better judgment, Vanyel spent three days playing there, returning to his or Stefen's rooms at the Palfrey later and later each night.

Nothing.

The second Bard, Luca, had simply vanished from his room one night, his belongings left behind and intact, but with all the expensive glass in the windows shattered. He had been rooming at a long-term hostel set far enough from the main roads that most never knew of it.

Vanyel visited the crime site the next night, slipping past the reconstruction and wishing he dared use something more than just Mage-Sight.

There was nothing. Not the slightest hint of spell-energy, or disturbances in the Other Plane to indicate anything had been there.

The third Bard, Stefen's predecessor, had barely earned her Scarlets – or at least the Hardornen equivalent thereof. She had been on her way to present her masterwork to her elderly parents when she'd been redirected – and promptly vanished. In her case, she hadn't even made it into the city proper – her trail ended in a waystation of sorts just outside the walls.

Stefen showed Van her signature in the logbooks himself, ignoring Gaelle's clear discomfort, and its lack of counterpart in the town's entry registry. Gaelle had already run through her own not-insignificant set of investigation-spells, again coming up with nothing.

* * *

It's been over a week, and you could tear your hair out in frustration. You remember Sofia, a little bit. She taught you how to play a particularly filthy little ditty on the flute. She was a refugee from one of the wars down south – you always thought Ceejay, but she never said – and said that adapting to Hardornen customs gave her an edge in mimicry and acting.

She hadn't been a part of the Company, but not for lack of skill.

The Guards hadn't known to investigate her disappearance; so far, you have only managed to trace her lute to a pawn shop near the tanneries by the south wall and a pair of ornamental hair-combs she'd been fond of adorning the hair of one of the flower-sellers by the north wall.

You buy back the lute. It's the least you could do.

Against your better judgment, you go to listen to Herald-Mage Vanyel the first night he plays. His voice is deep and rich like the best velvets, and it reminds you of cold winter nights with a quiet cup of tea in front of a roaring fire, the snow falling outside. As well it should; for all his mighty reputation, Herald-Mage Vanyel's Bardic Gift flickers with every note, straining to be set free. It cannot help but color his music.

It lends a haunting quality to his song. It also grates on your finely-tuned senses like an undertone of broken glass an off note. He could have been an incredible Bard. Instead, he hides his Gift when he should be sharing it, and although his voice shows evidence of long training, it is – formulaic.

The thought of such wasted potential takes your breath away. You see the unbridled joy of singing on his face and turn away. He has not noticed you, focused inward. Focused only on self-control. You wonder what he would sound like if he dared let loose, remembering the refrain to an old, unwontedly popular song.

_Herald Vanyel raised his golden voice and sang of life and light._

You want to match your voice to his, be the silver to his gold. Even though he is the most powerful mage in the known world, and technically still your enemy as well. But then, you are only human, after all.

You do not listen to him play the next day, or the next.

Gaelle is, of course, unsympathetic.  
  
"Herald-Mage _Vanyel,_ " she repeats every time you bring the man up. "Demonsbane. Firelord. Shadow-stalker. Hell, Stef, he's the _Butcher of Stony Tor!_ "

You wish you could see him as a monster. But he keeps showing you little facets of himself, little hints about himself and his past, and they're _fascinating._

You know his horse-Companion is not a horse. You know he comes from minor nobility, with a less-than-stellar relationship with his family. You know he feels guilt about Staven Frelennye – the real Staven's – death. You know he fell in love once, and it did not end well.

And you know that he holds significant power in Valdemar, both in his Heraldic Circle – similar to the Bardic Guild here, you suppose – and in his King's Court.

Despite what your heart tells you, you dutifully add these details to your reports. Gaining access to personal information about a neighboring kingdom's greatest mage and politician should have been a triumph. You just feel discontented and weary.

After three days, even Herald-Mage Vanyel is forced to admit a lack of knowledge gleaned. So you take him to where Luca died.

* * *

You never knew Lucas. He was an old man when your talent was first discovered. He might have been a part of the Company, or not. There was nothing about him in your dossier, at least.

An afternoon exchanging consolations and gossip with the local minstrels – those unafraid enough to appear, at least – yields little about him but his musical skill.

 _A middling Bard_ , Herald-Mage Vanyel suggests, as if Bards could be ranked by strength of Gift or voice alone. Perhaps in Valdemar they are.

 _An esteemed Bard,_ you argue back, _if he has managed to garner the respect and sympathy of so many colleagues._ You wish Mindspeech were one of your Gifts, because he and Gaelle end up staring at each other for the next few minutes, expressions flitting across their faces as they argue.

Herald-Mage Vanyel apologizes to you for his presumption.

You forgive him.

Still, you stay behind as he and Gaelle visit the site of Luca's disappearance. You are, after all, also the only person in the room who is also not a mage.

They find nothing.

* * *

Sorelle's signature is thick, cheap black ink looping in lazy spirals just above your own. You trace it, feeling the ink flake away onto your fingers.

Herald-Mage Vanyel leans over your shoulder, close enough you can feel his hair drift by your ear. He points toward the date by her name.

"Exactly twenty-seven days from Luca's disappearance. And he vanished twenty-eight days after Sofia."

"Once a month, thereabouts." You are most definitely not thinking about the warmth of his body next to you, or the way his lips move when he says your name.

"Something like that, yes." he murmurs. "May I?"

You signal him to go ahead, and almost immediately the man starts glowing. It is – not unpleasant. It is so not unpleasant, in fact, that you end up leaning forward to hide how not uncomfortable you both are and do not feel. Or at least, that is what you tell yourself. You are not in the least interested in Herald-Mage Vanyel.

He is an agent of a rival power, for gods' sake.

"Keep at it, and I might just kidnap you after this is all done," you mutter instead. "You make a wondrous reading light."

"Just don't do it while I'm asleep," he replies, absent-minded. His eyes are focused on a point somewhere behind the parchment, which has also begun to glow. "I don't want to blow anything – ir anyone – up by accident."

Right.

The silence stretches, but Herald-Mage Vanyel remains in deep-trance, completely oblivious. Gaelle peeks in, apparently summoned by the profligate use of mage-energy, and just as quickly closes the door on them.

Finally, _finally,_ Herald-Mage Vanyel moves, stretching.

"Nothing," he murmurs, frowning at the paper, which is none the worse for all his magical prodding. "No sign of tampering, magical or otherwise. No magical residue from nearby magic use, except for Gaelle's."

You think it over.

"Multiple people," Gaelle suggests, opening the door and walking in like she hadn't been waiting for him to finish. She has a pair of plates piled high with "Use of force to rather than the use of magic."

"It seems so," Herald-Mage Vanyel agrees, but his tone is doubtful. "But – why?"

And isn't _that_ the only question worth asking right now.

 


	4. Plot Twist

Vanyel was quickly becoming frustrated with the situation.

"Four weeks," Gaelle finished wearily. "One Bard every four weeks, and no one with the Gift and any sense in their heads will come anywhere near here. And now-"

"-three days left before whoever this is strikes again," Stefen sighed. "And if they can't find anyone in this town..."

"Who knows where they'll strike next?" Vanyel asked grimly.

"Who knows," Stefen echoed. "Gaelle and I got here a day after Erissa vanished, and she nearly a Master. No one else since."

But Gaelle was shaking her head. "I was the top of my class in investigation. The teachers gave me access to old case files. Unsolved mysteries and legends. Even confiscated materials from schools of blood magic. I... I've never seen anything like this."

Vanyel stared at the map of the town in front of him, three silvery pins shining accusingly up at him in the flickering candle-light. Near the town gates, closer to the central markets, and then outside the town proper. An unstable crescent of a path, nowhere near the magical node lying beneath the town.

The first Bard, secure but scarcely talented. The second Bard, strong enough to show signs of a struggle – a Bardic struggle? What pitch could shatter window-glass? The third Bard, whose reputation was of a skilled, competent operative.

Female, male, female-

"You," Vanyel said, a chill running down his spine.

Stefen paused, face questioning, as understanding dawned in Gaelle's eyes.

"There's no need for whatever's out there to go searching," Vanyel said through lips gone numb and cold. The pieces were beginning to fall together in his head, clear and crisp as a picture inscribed in winter ice. "You're next."

Shaking fingers traced the arc formed by the other three disappearances, closed the circle with their inn as the final point. "You think it's a pattern?" Gaelle whispered. "No, of course it is."

A mage-circle, drawn in blood by the lunar cycle, with the power-node at the town'cs center in its direct middle. A mage-circle similar to this one had summoned a god and created the Dhorisha Plains, long ago. A mage-circle similar to this one had fueled the Heralds' Web for centuries, beyond mortal endurance.

Vanyel swallowed hard, past a growing lump of fear in his throat.

"Stef," he began, "I think you should call for backup."

"With you here?" Gaelle asked. "Even if they came, no one is as good as you. And I personally don't want to explain why Stef and I have been allowing you to gallivant around town with nary a warning."

Vanyel understood. He didn't like it, but he understood.

He met Gaelle's eyes. There was an understanding there.

"Stef," Gaelle said, "Vanyel and I are going to ward you, as best we can, until the danger is over."

Stef swallowed, nodding mutely.

"I-I guess if the Herald-Mage Vanyel does it," he said with a weak chuckle, "I'm going to be as safe as I can ever be."

"You're welcome," Gaelle muttered, raising her hands. Mage-Gift sparked between her fingers, weak but well-controlled to Vanyel's Mage-Sight.

"Well done," he murmured as he watch the magic settle in a soft, wispy cocoon around Stef. There was very little residual energy left to indicate she had ever cast the spell. His magical touch slid over it like water over oil.

Gaelle nodded, and he called on his own spells. Gaelle's cocoon was nigh-impervious to him, leaving him very little to anchor, so he built his own frame, glass-sharp lattice over foreign magic. Over it he layered every protective spell he could think of, magic over magic over more magic, all of which was hidden by yet more magic.

"Well done," Gaelle murmured when he opened his eyes again. The candles had burned down; she was holding new tapers to the dying flame.

Stef was fidgeting with impatience, face slightly flushed.

"I felt that," he said breathlessly. "That was – tingly."

"Mmhmm," Vanyel said, sinking back into the magic. "I'm going to ward the node so our perpetrator won't be able to use it, if he's a mage."

Gaelle grunted. Stef opened his mouth to protest.

"I can leave open a link for you, Gaelle. Can you use the node?"

Gaelle shook her head, planting the new candles in empty candlesticks.

A part of him acknowledged her; the rest of him sank deep into the node, letting it wash over him and refill his reserves. It sang to him, one of the strongest nodes he'd encountered outside Tayledras territory, as he reached out with hands of imagination and will and wove it about itself, a pattern with no beginning or end or deviations. _There_. That should frustrate enemy mages!

"-beautiful," Gaelle was saying as he opened his eyes again, a reaction-headache beginning to pound behind his eyes.

"I can imagine," Stef replied wistfully.

"I'm back," Vanyel mumbled, looking at them. Gaelle was sitting on the table, Stef tuning a lute beside her. "What's beautiful?"

"The node," Stef said. There was a faraway look in his eyes. "You and Gaelle make it sound – like the sun, rather. Or an angel."

Gaelle snorted.

"It's just magic," Vanyel sighed. "A strong node, but more of a – a campfire, than the sun."

"You've seen bigger nodes?" Gaelle raised an eyebrow in careful surprise.

Vanyel shrugged. "Not by much. I wonder why no mage or mage-school has claimed this node?"

"They're officially property of the King. He leases them out to mages as needed. No one's been able to afford the price of this node in over two centuries."

Vanyel stared at her. "You're joking. How does he even enforce that?"

Stef pointed to Gaelle. "His Court mages, of course."

"Of course," Vanyel echoed.

Gaelle smiled, shrugging in embarrassment. "We get three times the price of any bribe if we report it. Last time someone tried to bribe one of us, Court Mage Vendrican became Mage-Count Vendrican. Someone tried to offer him a _barony_. The King takes us very seriously."

Vanyel tried to imagine people attempting to bribe a Herald-Mage.

"Then Lord Nedran," he began slowly. "Never really expected me to accept his offers."

"Or he was stupid," Stef shrugged. "He probably figured you didn't know about the King's Offer."

Vanyel shook his head again.

"So King Festil-"

"-would probably have supported you, if you'd taken him to court over those farmers instead of feeding him to his own demons," Gaelle finished dryly. "He doesn't like when mages run roughshod over Hardorn."

Vanyel groaned and buried his face in his arms. The table was warm and rough and absolutely no help for his headache. "Let's call it a night?"

He was not so lucky.

"We still have a set to play tonight over by the Candied Daisy," Stef reminded him.

Vanyel groaned.

* * *

Vanyel doesn't look too good. His face is pasty and flushed, with bags under his eyes that weren't there this morning. His hands are shaking as he tunes his lute. He could probably be taken out by a grumpy toddler, in this state.

You never thought that Herald-Mage Vanyel could ever show signs of magical exhaustion.

But it makes sense – he's away from his Circle, and the combined power of _their_ magics. His Companion is nowhere nearby. His magic is not endless. And Gaelle told you, after he left, that she's never seen anyone manage so many layers of protection, all by himself. And that he'd repeated whatever he'd done with the node. There are only two mages in Hardorn capable of such a feat, and neither of them can do what he did in less than a week.

So. Vanyel is even more terrifyingly powerful than you thought he could be, and yet, more... human.

"I can play this set myself," you offer, watching him fumble through a few chords. Even his Bardic Gift is quiescent, as if it too had been exhausted along with his magic.

Vanyel shakes his head, adjusting a peg.

"I'll be fine," he offers, lips quirking up shakily. "I have reserves."

Right. The node. You're not sure even it is enough to replenish his energy-stores – or is it because they can't, not quite? Gaelle told you something about this once, but you weren't paying attention.

You work your way through a few scales yourself. The lap-harp you're using tonight is not an instrument Vanyel is familiar with, and you thought he'd find it interesting, but it's becoming clear that he's not going to be finding much interesting tonight.

 Still, when he starts playing, his fingering is firm enough, if a bit slower than the tempo would warrant. No one notices it but you, of course, because most people have the musical ear of a deaf hammer.

When someone requests "My Lady's Eyes" for the third time that night, you make an excuse to borrow his lute, edging his voice out when he attempts to sing. The look he gives you is disbelieving and slightly offended.

The look you sent back tells him to go to bed.

He deliberates for all of half a second before nodding and slipping away into the audience with a practice ease that brings a surge of jealousy to your throat. You turn your face to your lute and put more feeling into the lyrics.

 


End file.
